


talk shit get hit

by chameleonchanging



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, May The Fourth Be With You, squint hard and tilt head for ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:42:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24002281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleonchanging/pseuds/chameleonchanging
Summary: The 104th has been sent to a naval base, and the sailors have some Dumb Opinions about clone trooper competencies. Even worse, they called their General ugly.Clearly, there's only one way to resolve this situation: an Army-Navy paintball match. The wolves are loose and on the hunt. The Navy isn't gonna know what hit them.
Relationships: Plo Koon & CC-3636 | Wolffe
Comments: 13
Kudos: 130





	talk shit get hit

“What are the rules again?” Sinker asks, holding up his rifle and squinting at the ammunition cartridge. The entire setup, complete with a thousand paintball rounds, weighs less than the regulation-issue weapon he usually carries.

“Get the principal to the base unshot,” says Wolffe, strapping on the flimsy game-approved padding. “Preferably unshot ourselves.”

“This is the dumbest game ever. Why are we doing this?” Comet complains. He has a moral objection to getting shot at for fun on his downtime.

“Because those Navy jerks implied we weren’t good enough for our Jedi,” says Boost. “And you never pass up a chance to shoot at the Navy. It’s a rule.”

“Also they called General Plo ugly, and Wolffe won’t stand for that,” Sinker adds, snickering at Wolffe’s scowl. Unkind words had been said, that was true, and he had taken exception. But mostly it was unit pride demanding he show the sailors who was boss, and he knew just how he was going to do it. All he needed was his principal to show up. 

“You called, Commander?” 

Wolffe looks up from securing his boot and gives a toothy grin. “Plo. Glad you could make it.” He stands and claps a hand on his shoulder. “I need a tiny favor.”

Plo raises an eyeridge. “Anything.” He follows Wolffe to the window. Outside, trees and rock dot the landscape. It looks peaceful, aside from the occasional splash of yellow and red against the greens and browns. Just visible through the foliage is a tiny shack in the distance, a blue flag waving over its decaying roof.

“You see that flag there?” Wolffe says, pointing. “Just need you to take a nice stroll over.”

“A stroll,” says Plo.

“Yup. A stroll. No fighting, no Force magic, just a nice slow walk in the woods.” Wolffe smiles. 

“How slow?”

“Meditatively slow,” says Wolffe. Plo chuckles. “And I’ll even have a present for you at the end.”

“As you wish, Commander,” says Plo. The airhorn shouts twice, and Plo looks out. “I take it that’s my cue to . . . contemplate.” 

The four of them watch Plo step outside and start across. Wolffe bares his teeth. “I want them alive, boys.” 

“Yessir!”

* * *

The forest is a nice, quiet area, and this time of year there is a blanket of leaves collecting on the ground, providing a nice crunching sound as Plo walks. Every so often an interesting feature in a tree trunk or pretty arrangement of stones catches his attention and he pauses to study them, turning what would be a two minute run into a ten minute sketch tour. 

He tucks his sketchbook into his pocket as he arrives at the shack. Wolffe and his Pack have beaten him to it and collected guests as well. The four Navy personnel on the opposing team have been disarmed and are on their knees, hands behind their necks, with a trooper holding a paint pistol to the back of each of their helmets. “Commander Wolffe, I see you’ve had a productive hunt.”

“Yessir,” says Wolffe, leaning a little harder on his sailor, who is also his counterpart and the source of his ire. “Welcome to the LZ.”

“Thank you, Commander. And this is my present?” He studies the opposing lead, who looks somewhat familiar. He thinks they may have crossed paths at some point in the last day or so, since being sent to this base. 

“It is,” says Wolffe. “What would you like done with them?”

Plo tips his head. “I leave that entirely to your discretion.” 

Wolffe grins, and four paint pistols go off, filling the air with yelps and cursing.


End file.
